


Acceptance

by marshmallowdramatic



Series: Unconditional Properties [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biphobia, Bisexual Christophe Giacometti, Bisexual Victor Nikiforov, Bisexuality, Blowjobs, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Chris Feels, Depression, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Illness, Multi, OT3, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post canon, Threesome - M/M/M, friendly rivals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11669919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallowdramatic/pseuds/marshmallowdramatic
Summary: “Love is made up of three unconditional properties in equal measure...."― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of InspirationBy January, the novelty of their life and love had worn off somewhat as they faced the notions of competing and loving and distance—three facts of life with which Christophe was painfully familiar and which Viktor would have done well to remember. Yuuri wasn't to blame. His own self-sabotaging nature had prevented him from having even this. By February, the cold truth of reality pushed the lovers apart as they sought warmth on their own terms. By March, they had competed continents away from each other, and the fog had begun to set in, reducing everything Viktor had thought was bright and shining to a dull flicker in the distance. When had gold lost its luster?Still, gold is gold, and surely that has to count for something? After all, only a fool would leave such treasures behind.





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first chapter of the first installment of “Unconditional Properties”! This is my first time publishing a fic in literal years, and it's been such a process already. I love this fandom and these characters, though, which is what spurred me to continue even when writing this story became so difficult. This work is dedicated to many of my IRL friends who have listened to me scream about my OT3 (and have probably gotten tired of it tbh) and who have provided feedback when needed. If you check out the larger "Unconditional Properties" series page, you can take a lot where I see this monster of a story going. Please note that this fic is canon-divergent and involves some pretty intense mentions of mental illness (derived from my own personal experience) as well as polyamory and negotiations of polyamory. If these things aren’t your cuppa, this may not be the fic for you. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!

[Unconditional Properties]  
{Acceptance}

i. A world of two dimensions

  
Yuuri’s ring glinted accusingly at him from where it sat on the nightstand. He took a deep, albeit shaky breath and looked away. He reasoned that he didn’t want it to fall off and get lost when he took a post-workout soak about an hour ago. The more logical part of Yuuri’s brain knew it was more than that, of course; knew he had never taken it off before yesterday, had worn it since he’d proposed without proposing almost six months ago. They were fighting again, if it could even be called that.

Nothing serious, but enough that they’d slept in separate rooms last night for the first time in months.

Something about their relationship had just felt off ever since Yuuri insisted they leave Saint Petersburg and come to Hasetsu for the summer to train before the Grand Prix series began again in the fall. Yuuri had been so optimistic when he’d picked Viktor up from the train station just a couple of weeks earlier, Makkachin bounding happily after him. Both of them greeted Yuuri enthusiastically, and it seemed like they were going to settle right back into their old routine from before the Grand Prix Final and their engagement.

Of course, reality had begun to rear its ugly head almost immediately after Viktor's arrival. Viktor of course swore up and down that his stomach was just having trouble readjusting to Japanese cuisine, which of course meant that he had been eating next to nothing and was quickly losing what little excess weight he had to begin with, while naturally causing Yuuri and the rest of the Katsuki family a great deal of worry. Of course, that wasn’t even mentioning the damage Viktor’s lack of appetite did to his sex drive. He and Yuuri hadn’t had sex since Viktor’s first night in Hasetsu, and from the way things were going, it didn’t look like that was going to change any time soon.

All Yuuri had wanted to do in bringing them both back to Japan was to feel comfortable with Viktor again in ways he couldn’t back in Russia. He wanted to settle into a routine on which they could base their entire future together, something warm and sweet and domestic, like Yuuri was sure Yurio assumed Yuuri and Viktor already had, if his sneers during his biweekly Skype calls-turned-Russian lessons are any indication.

But after two weeks, all he was left with was an abnormally quiet Viktor who did little more than train religiously at Ice Castle. When he did talk to Yuuri, the Katsuki family, or the rest of Yuuri’s English-speaking circle, Viktor discussed nothing but skating—from routines to costumes and the Grand Prix Final exhibition (which was so far away that Yuuri didn’t even want to think about it yet), as well as fraught, tearful late-night debates about whether Viktor would finally retire for good after this season which never produced any results other than upsetting the both of them. After a couple of weeks of this, Yuuri finally identified what had gone wrong. It was like they were trying to skate in tandem but were listening to different music.

The previous night, Yuuri had finally had enough and decided to confront Viktor, in the best way he knew how. In retrospect, it hadn’t been the most effective intervention. Viktor had been leaning in for a kiss, after Yuuri blushingly suggested they retire to their room early that night after dinner. Of course Viktor had assumed that Yuuri wanted that kind of alone time with Viktor.

It’s what Yuuri himself would’ve figured, had their roles been reversed. Instead of returning Viktor’s kiss, Yuuri sort of awkwardly turned his head away, causing Viktor to kiss his cheek instead. Viktor raised an eyebrow and looked like he was going to say something cute, but all signs of mirth disappeared from his face when he noticed Yuuri’s expression.

Yuuri had cleared his throat awkwardly, placing a hand on Viktor’s shoulder in order to gently push him away. “Actually, I—uh, wanted to talk to you about something,” he said in a rush, not meeting his fiancé’s eyes.

With that, he released Viktor’s shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Viktor to join him. And he did, sitting beside Yuuri, a polite (read: safe) distance away. They may as well have been a continent apart.

“What is it, Yuuri?” There was something almost brittle about Viktor’s posture, even though his expression betrayed nothing.

 _Damn, this is more difficult than I thought it would be._ Yuuri took a breath and let it out slowly. There were so many things he wanted to say. _I hate that all we can talk about now is skating. I hate the way you sneak off in the middle of the night to go practice and come home with new bruises that you won't let me kiss better. I hate that you’re not eating and I know it’s not because you’re ‘not used’ to Japanese food. I hate feeling like I can’t help you and that you don't want my help._ The accusations had whirled relentlessly through his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

Belatedly, he realized he’d been quiet for too long, as the impassive set of Viktor’s brow had begun to give way to worry, so he blurted out, “You don’t have to force yourself to be in the mood.”

Viktor blinked once, twice, and then his face broke into a dazzling smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not forcing myself,” he said, after too long a pause. “I love making love to you, Yuuri, you know that.”

Yuuri shook his head as his face heated up. _Why was that the first thing I thought of? I’m such an idiot!_

Viktor cautiously moved closer, gently cradling Yuuri’s cheek in his hands, trying to meet Yuuri’s eyes. “Yuuri, love, you know how happy you make me, how happy I am just spending any time with you. Things have been so busy lately that we just haven’t had as much time...” He trailed off as Yuuri closed his eyes; his vision had begun to blur with tears, and he didn't want Viktor seeing him cry again this week.

Yuuri was suddenly tempted to just leave the room like he normally did when Viktor started like this. He’d been practically avoiding Yuuri like the plague for the past week! Why don’t you trust me, Viktor? Instead, he did the opposite of his urge to flee and faced Viktor head on.

“You know I hate it when you lie to me and make excuses like this.”

Viktor’s eyes widened, and he pulled back his hand as if it’d been burned.

Yuuri almost couldn’t blame him; he was going off-script, after all. They’d been having disagreements (not fights) like this since before Worlds, their roles reversing as many times as their first pairs exhibition skate. They usually went something along these lines:

YUURI/VIKTOR: I feel like we’re having problems with communication.

VIKTOR/YUURI: Why do you feel that way?

_(a long pause, in which the couple look at anything but each other)_

YUURI/VIKTOR: I don’t know. I’m gonna go for a run.

END SCENE

  
And then they’d make up a few days later, after one of them made an apology filled with empty promises to be more open, and then they’d have half-hearted make-up sex. Then, a few days after that (or maybe a week if they were lucky), after it became clear that nothing was going to change, one of them would initiate the conversation again, thus beginning the cycle anew.

Yuuri knew they were on shaky ground and had been for months now, in danger of burning out if they kept this up much longer, but at the same time, the instability at least was constant, and even though it was hell on Yuuri’s anxiety, admitting that would be admitting defeat. He’d already lost too many times now. There was no way he was conceding this too.

“I don’t understand—” Viktor had tried, but he cut himself off when he saw Yuuri’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Don’t,” Yuuri said flatly, finally pulling away from Viktor and ignoring the way Viktor just let him.

Yuuri wondered if he looked as drained as Viktor did right now. Training wasn't easy, and Viktor was just as relentless as ever. If he'd thought keeping up with Viktor as his student had been bad, being competitors was ten times worse.

Yuuri continued, “I don’t care if you lie to me about the sex right now.” For some reason, his English was coming out strangely, and it sounded robotic to his own ears. “I just—this isn’t how it should be.” He felt the telltale heat prickling at his eyes again and knew he was going to start crying soon if this kept up, and unlike Viktor, Yuuri didn’t cry prettily.

“What do you mean?” Viktor’s eyes were wide and too bright, and he kept glancing at the closed door, as though wishing he could teleport through it and escape this conversation.

“You know what I mean!” That was louder and harsher than he’d meant it to be, but Yuuri steadfastly kept his gaze away from Viktor. He needed to get this out, and he knew he’d break down if he looked at Viktor right now. “I just...I can't...I never thought it would be this difficult with you.”

The room was silent, save for the crickets and the bubbling water outside. For a few moments, neither said anything, and Viktor didn’t even make an attempt to respond to Yuuri, which honestly hurt a little bit. Yuuri finally looked over at his fiancé, only to see that Viktor’s lower lip was trembling, and he was looking down at his own clasped hands.

Viktor hunched his shoulders and made a weak little sob when the first tears tumbled as gracefully as ever from his eyes and then rose from the bed, fleeing the room without another word.

Yuuri, on the other hand, went one step further and followed script to a T, lacing up his sneakers downstairs while the tears fell and running through the night until his legs wobbled and his lungs burned as much as his eyes did.

He returned home in the small, feeble hours of the early morning, and by the look of his watch, he’d been out there for a least a couple of hours. He strained his ears as he made his way up the stairs, listening for any signs of wakefulness. He let out a small squeak when he almost tripped over Makkachin, who had taken to curling up in the hallway between Yuuri’s and Viktor’s doors when the pair fought, as though he hadn’t been able to choose whose room to sleep in. Viktor probably loved that.

The next morning, Yuuri had woken up alone and aching, but he hauled himself out of bed to go on his usual morning jog anyway. A quick glance at his phone (no notifications apart from some comments on a selfie he’d posted to Instagram the previous afternoon) told him that Viktor would have already finished his morning workout by now and would probably be at Ice Castle, so he decided to move his off-ice session to today. Minako-sensei probably wouldn’t mind all that much. Yuuri sent her as well as Coach Miyamoto messages explaining his plans, citing a desire to work on physical fitness after a bit of a sluggish evening as his reason for shuffling his practices around.

He figured that after last night, Viktor would want some space too. He hoped he was right, but the more he thought about it, the more Yuuri realized he didn’t even care. As he got dressed for his own workout, his ring shone from its place on the bedside table, too golden and too cheery in the sunlight, mocking him.

  
{Acceptance}

  
  
Christophe wasn’t sure what the big deal was still. One minute he’d been receiving a really nice blowjob on his favorite chaise, and the next his choreographer turned fuck buddy had come marching into their shared flat— _unannounced_ , Chris might be inclined to add.

For a few moments, all was quiet and still, save for the sultry sounds of Rihanna crooning “Skin” from the stereo, the echose of traffic far below, and the flickering lights of nearby buildings dancing in from the tall windows to Chris’s right. Finally, as it became clear that nobody else would do it, he sighed and turned the music off. So much for that.

“Wasn’t expecting you home so soon, baby,” Chris greeted to at least break the now-awkward silence, his flirty grin fading as he took in Florian’s posture.

“Why?” Florian asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Chris replied with a shrug, not even making a move to cover himself. “You never said we were exclusive.”

"So you picked my sister to fuck around with.” He said it as if he were remarking on the weather.

Alyssa, the sister in question, had actually pulled out her phone and begun playing Candy Crush practically the moment her brother burst through the door, still on her knees with her red dress unzipped and her long hair pleasantly tousled at the foot of the chaise. She didn’t even bat an eyelash at Florian’s sudden arrival, only rolled her eyes and muttered something in German about stupid brothers interrupting sex.

Ah, if only Alyssa wasn’t Florian’s sister (and Florian wasn’t a flaming homosexual), there wouldn’t have had to be a problem. Conventional wisdom says the best things come in threes, and oh would the three of them have _come_. Chris chuckled a bit at the thought.

Florian had always been so expressive (one of his many finer qualities), and now was no exception. Florian’s normally kind face was looking not-so-kind anymore, equal parts disgusted and hurt, and looking at him made Chris’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

Trying to push down those unfamiliar feelings, Chris spoke. “She’s an adult—older than you, last I checked. We aren’t monogamous, and you were in Basel as far as I knew so I indulged a little bit. It’s not like she wasn’t a willing and enthusiastic participant.” He added that last bit after a glance at Alyssa, who was starting to look less bored and more irritated.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room.” Alyssa’s declaration added English to the mix, and she shot her brother a look tinged with pity. “I’m leaving,” she announced before bending to catch Chris’s lips in a brief kiss. "Call me if you'd like," she added nonchalantly as she pulled away.

 _Damn, she still tastes like me._ The thought went straight to his cock, naturally, and he moved to cross his legs as Alyssa left with a toss of her dark hair.

As the door closed behind her, Florian stepped directly into Chris’s field of vision, his brown eyes burning as he hastily switched to his own excellent English.

“We’re through. I’m sick of the drama, I’m sick of the neediness, and I’m sick of you fucking everything that so much as breathes in your direction. You're a no-good slut, and I'm done with you, Christophe.” The words were flat, resigned, and yet beneath the calm surface, Chris could practically feel the acrid resentment bubbling dangerously.

Chris had expected Florian to follow the usual pattern: to yell, to scream, to rage at him and swear. Not this. This was somehow worse. The quiet was overwhelming suddenly, so he began dressing as Florian pulled one of Chris’s suitcases from the closet and started haphazardly shoving things into it with an air of someone trying very hard not to yell. Chris found himself almost wishing for the theatrics he'd been expecting the moment Florian had burst in, the theatrics Florian was particularly renowned for.

It was his fault this happened in the first place, Chris thought bitterly.  
  
Florian had been the one to move things way too quickly for comfort in suggesting they move in together so soon after the Grand Prix Final last year, and Chris had been more than a little unsure about mixing their professional and personal relationships, but he’d just liked the companionship if he was being honest with himself. Sex with Florian had started out relatively promising, of course—fast and sloppy and just plain filthy at times with no strings attached, and that was just how Christophe liked it.

Chris had wrongly assumed that things would stay casual when Florian first proposed they take their physical relationship beyond just choreography. The tensions had started with the lingering, burning looks Florian gave Chris’s ass during practice and ended, much like many of Chris’s friendships seemed to, on a king-size mattress.

Florian had claimed to understand that Chris’s most important relationship was the one he shared with the ice, which made sense, since Florian himself was a retired pairs skater. But Florian had made it clear the moment sex had entered the equation that they weren’t going to be able to go back to pure professionalism. There had been so many little red flags, and yet Chris had known that and still went forward with it, still accepted Florian’s advances and for what? Because he was lonely or something?

He was shaken from his thoughts when Florian slammed a pair of Chris’s shoes onto the floor with an unnecessarily loud smack.

“You act like we were a couple in the first place,” Chris finally retorted, taking his sweet time putting on his shoes because he knew how much Florian hated that.

Sure enough, without looking up, Chris heard that telltale huff and Florian’s stomping footsteps heading toward the kitchen, and part of him hoped for a moment that Florian would begin to throw some of their shared crockery at his head, or at the very least, the wall. His curiosity piqued at the sounds of Florian rummaging around, Chris stayed still for a few moments.

No plates were flung at his head or any other part of him. He almost sighed in disappointment. After making sure his outfit was impeccable, he took over where Florian had left off in packing. It appeared that Chris’s ex-lover—and probable ex-choreographer—was planning on getting shitfaced and would be of no help for the rest of the night.

Chris rolled his eyes ( _so much for that_ , he thought bitterly) and made quick work of packing up his belongings, grabbing his toiletries from the bathroom in just one trip since he’d already been packing to go back home to Valais earlier that day anyway. One advantage to travelling so much for work was that he had very few personal effects in Zürich, preferring to leave the majority of his things at his parents’ ski resort.

“Call me if you decide to be reasonable about this.” He knew it was petty (and downright untrue; Florian had been, if anything, a little _too_ reasonable, all things considered), but he really wanted to see Florian's fire one last time.

A glass slammed down on the counter but didn’t break, echoing far too loudly through the high-ceilinged loft. Well, that one did the trick. “Go to Hell, Christophe!” came Florian's shout from the kitchen.

That was it, huh? Not much for an explosion. Still, Chis didn't want to push his luck, so he shrugged (he’d heard worse from better shags) and with a grunt, he heaved his backpack onto his back and his skating bag onto his shoulders and then pulled his suitcases behind him toward the door, trying to make the movements look effortless.

As soon as he left the apartment building, he began making a plan for his next course of action.

First, he got a cab to the airport and called ahead to ensure that there would be a room ready for him at the hotel so that he could decide where to fly to from there. Suddenly, Chris didn’t feel much like going home to his parents and siblings, even though he sure as hell missed Bae.

His darling cat had been forced to stay with Chris’s parents because of Florian’s allergies, and now Chris happily realized that he’d be able to bring Bae to wherever he decided to move next ( _there’s that silver lining_ , Chris thought with a wry smile). Of course, thoughts of his darling cat reminded Chris of Instagram, since half of his pictures were of that finicky Persian.

He opened up the app automatically, and right at the top of his feed was a picture of a young man in front of the ocean, the sunlight kissing his soft features and turning his brown eyes golden. _Beautiful_ , Chris thought dumbly, unable to look away for a few moments, _he’s so beautiful_.

katsuki.yuuri 3hr

 

 

5.9k likes  
katsuki.yuuri: It’s so quiet here! Can’t wait to see everyone in the fall! #offseasonblues #hellofromhasetsu

Reading the caption and realizing who had posted it seemed to snap Chris out of…whatever the hell he’d been thinking. Shaking his head, Chris liked it (the photo was aesthetically pleasing, after all, and Chris was nothing if not aesthetically inclined) and kept scrolling.

Phichit Chulanont had posted a pretty cool selfie in Times Square with a few other skaters, including Leo de la Iglesia, Guanghong Ji, and a cute redhead Chris recognized as Connor Hughes, an American who had made his senior debut at Four Continents and had skated at Worlds. He gave the photo a like and commented: “Have fun and be safe in NYC! See you at the Grand Prix~”

Chris spent the next ten minutes taking selfies and then picked the best one, cropping and editing it for Instagram. Before he could actually post it, however, he got a phone call.

Chris listened with half an ear as his coach chewed him out for scaring off yet another choreographer and even refrained from saying anything as Josef bemoaned Chris’s lack of professionalism over the phone, speaking in mournful tones like he always did whenever Chris did something he disapproved of.

“Why is it that nothing with you can be easy, Christophe?” he asked, and Chris knew it was rhetorical, but he found himself wanting to answer.

 _It’s not me who's the problem,_ he wanted to protest, _It’s everyone else!_

Josef finally hung up only a few minutes before the cab reached its destination, and truth be told, Christophe wouldn’t have been able to repeat half of what his coach had said. Whatever. It wasn’t as though he’d never heard it all before.

After he paid, thanked the driver, and pulled his luggage from the trunk, Chris faced the hotel’s plain façade with slight trepidation. He hadn’t really thought about what he planned on doing after reaching the airport. Hell, he hadn’t even told Josef he’d intended to leave Zürich yet. Josef would find out in practice the next morning, like he always did whenever Chris ran off. He always did say Chris was the reason he had no hair.

With a sigh, Chris hauled his things to the hotel lobby, gave the cute receptionist his name with a flirty grin, and wondered where he was going to go from here.

 

{Acceptance}

Viktor woke up slowly that morning, a few minutes after the sun had begun to think about rising. He woke up as though he was snow thawing beneath the sunlight. He woke up stiffly and stretched his aching limbs, listening to the almost musical way they cracked and popped with each movement.

His eyes were dry and stinging. Why were they stinging again? It took him a moment to remember. He’d been crying.  
_Yuuri_. The name sent pain and love and guilt ringing through his chest all at once. Too loud.

He had been crying last night. That was why his eyes were stinging. He’d been crying. Had it been last night? The days were starting to blur together again. He knew he’d been crying at least because his eyes were stinging. He used that knowledge as his foundation and set to the task of building himself from the ground up.

He dressed like he was a machine, a malfunctioning one. There was a shirt lying inside-out on the floor. He put it on. Then he stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Why was he standing there again instead of lying in bed? Standing was painful on his feet, painful on his brain.

Practice. He had practice. It was already light out. He had to practice, that was what he had to do.

Viktor pulled on his sweatpants even more slowly than he had yesterday. His feet ached, painted liberally with angry reds and deep blues and vibrant yellows and sickly greens, an ever-changing landscape, a reminder that he was still here. Viktor Nikiforov wasn't dead yet.

Someone had already laid out his socks beside him on the bed, and he put them on slowly, trying to minimize the jostling to his aching feet.

He tried to remember what was next. He took a deep inhale. _Practice_. He had practice today. That was what he was doing, getting ready for practice.

His teeth. The hall bathroom.

He looked in the mirror as he brushed. The man looking back at him was tired, and his blue eyes were dull. Of course he was tired. It was morning. He was tired because it was early. Nothing more, nothing less. He finished brushing his teeth and splashed some cold water on his face. He gave the mirror a smile, the false, tight, too-bright one he gave fans and press.

_An autograph? Sure! Thanks for your continued support!_

He gave the mirror another smile after setting his toothbrush down. And so it went. He didn’t look at the door to Yuuri’s room as he walked back to his own, didn’t want his beloved Yuuri to see him like this. Makkachin was sleeping in the middle of the hallway, and after looking at his dog for a few seconds (minutes? hours?) things slowed down again. It took Viktor a moment to remember what he was doing. Back to his room. He was going back to his room.

The bottle filled with white capsules sat innocently on his desk and mocked him. He knew he was supposed to take his meds. The ISU knew he took them, had known for years and there was nothing in the rules that said he couldn’t since Yakov had cleared them with the ISU nearly a decade ago. But he didn’t need them anymore. He was feeling better than he had in years. Soon, the fog would subside and leave him in the sunshine again.

He was sure of it. He had to be.

He ignored the bottle and picked up his phone instead. His headphones were tangled around it in knots that would perplex a sailor. He clicked his tongue and shoved the whole mess into his pocket.

Makkachin was asleep in the hallway, and Viktor almost stepped on his tail. Absently, he stroked Makka’s soft fur as a form of apology for what almost was. The dog slept on. Viktor watched him breathe and kept petting him without really noticing.

Makkachin didn’t stir under Viktor’s touch. Viktor stood up again after a few moments and walked downstairs silently.

He didn’t eat breakfast that morning. Mari was already in the kitchen, and Viktor could hear her cooking and humming along to a vaguely familiar pop song. She’d probably want to take a walk with Makkachin later, like she always did. She loved Makka.

Viktor sneaked past her. She was probably busy. He didn’t want to bother her if she was busy. His stomach growled in protest, and as he left the inn he realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

He had practice to get to. He went on a morning run first, his feet screaming out tortured protests with every step up the hill to the temple, the pain too loud in his pounding head. The sun had risen and it made the forest look like it was burning. The alarm in his phone was too loud too, telling him it was time for something…but what? He had stopped running, had finished his morning workout routine. Hadn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t. No, he’d definitely done his run already. His feet were aching now worse than when he’d woken up. Yet the alarm was still blaring.

Oh! Practice. He had to go to practice. Ice Castle. Yuuri would be there maybe. Yuuri. The fog subsided and gave way to dazzling sunlight.

Viktor turned off the alarm and went back to Yu-topia to get his bike. His feet were aching, after all, and so was his head, so he put on his headphones before departing. Nothing was playing on his phone but the headphones lessened the noise outside some. The fisherman on the bridge said good morning in heavily accented English like he did every day. Viktor smiled at him. It was a false, tight, too-bright smile.

He barely heard Yuko’s cheerful hello. Gave her a smile and heard her mumbling fretfully under her breath. It wasn’t English. It was Japanese, probably, because Viktor didn’t understand what she said.

He went to the locker room and laced up his skates. The gold blades shone too brightly in the locker room, and they matched the ring Yuuri had given him that he still wore on his right ring finger. He looked down at the ring dumbly.  
_Yuuri_.

The locker room was clinical beneath the fluorescent lights. Wasn’t the fog supposed go away now? It had gone before, hadn’t it? Now he couldn’t even remember Before. He sat there for a few moments, thinking about the hazy fog that looked so much like the sort that wreathed around the ice in the warm summer mornings. It took him a few minutes to remember what he was supposed to be doing. The ice. He’d been thinking about the ice.

Practice. He had practice. His warmups were stiff and slow, maybe half the speed he normally did for warmup figures, before he moved onto his turn drills. The only sounds were Viktor’s skates on the ice. Anything else would have been too loud. His skates were too loud.

If he couldn’t warm up, Viktor decided, then he’d practice. He practiced. Practiced. Under-rotated that quad loop out of steps for the third time then decided to try something else.

He practiced. Practiced. Two-footed a quad toe, and popped the subsequent triple loop in the combination, turning it into a single.

Practiced. Practiced. Realized he was wearing only ankle socks under his skates when a bit of snow got into his boots.  
Practiced. Practiced. Barely stayed upright after that solitary quadruple Lutz he’d been able to do reliably since he was sixteen.

Practiced.

His spins were too stiff and too slow. The fog wreathed around the ice, seeming to dull even his blades.

He kept practicing, stumbling through step sequences he could have done in his sleep. Maybe he was sleeping, and he’d wake up soon and the sun would be bright and he’d feel again.

He kept practicing. Kept practicing.

Viktor practiced until he felt that telltale trickle of blood running down the back of his ankle where his callouses had softened from his half-season off. Only when the blood had started to pool in the bottoms of his boots did he finally obey his aching body and stop. His hands were cold, he noted on his third attempt to put on his favorite pair of guards.

Gloves. He hadn’t put on gloves either.

His legs gave out under him suddenly. Fortunately, there was a bench right under where he’d fallen. Convenient. There was a calendar request from Yakov to schedule their afternoon practice call. His head was pounding, and the screen of his phone was blurry for some reason, but Viktor pressed what he hoped was the “accept” button and then put the device back down on the bench.

After a moment, the fog had become too much again. Viktor reached blindly for his water bottle, but as his hand clasped repeatedly around air, he realized that he had left it in the locker room.

Viktor stood awkwardly, with none of his usual grace, and slowly walked to the locker room to grab his things. He had to stay hydrated.

He drank greedily from his water bottle. The water had gone cool, which was good news for his throat, he figured. He could just imagine Yakov scolding him for drinking lukewarm water.

_It’ll give you a stomachache, Vitya!_

His stomach rumbled on cue, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Viktor unlocked his phone to see the time and ended up staring at Yuuri’s smiling face. Yuuri looked so happy. It was a picture from after the Grand Prix Final last year, Yuuri posing with his silver medal, so proud and practically glowing. The fog subsided for a moment.

The phone had locked by the time Viktor remembered he was supposed to be checking the time. He unlocked it again, his mind clearer than it’d been all morning. Half-noon. It was lunchtime. He hadn’t brought anything but a red apple.

He looked at it for a few moments, trying to remember why he had pulled it out of his bag again. Lunch. He had to have something to eat. The apple was lunch. He put it down again and had more water, which had gone cold because he’d left the lid open. Grimaced.

His phone buzzed with another notification. It was a text…well, a string of texts, all from the same person.

 

(Peach )(Woman With Bunny Ears ≊ Women Partying)Chris(Smirking Face )(Two Hearts )  
  
**2017/4/3** 22:14  
I mean idk if she's really your type ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
  
that's what i was thinking too i mean she is cute tho  
  
and if she wants to then who am i to turn down such an offer?  
  
Have a fun night then and you're welcome (Winking Face )  
  
**Today** 11:40  
**Chris:** so i know this is sudden...  
  
**Chris:** but i need some advice babe  
  
**Chris:** so if you get a chance call me okay?  
  


The fog cleared at the thought of talking to Chris again. It’d been at least a couple of weeks. Since he’d arrived in Japan, if he remembered correctly. Viktor lay down on the hard bench and hit the call icon without hesitation and with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

Christophe picked up on the second ring.

 _“Oh, thank fake God. You will not_ believe _the day I’ve just had,”_ Chris declared without preamble.

He then wove a tale of woe and betrayal worthy of the trashiest Russian soap opera featuring his now ex-choreographer and lover…as well as said choreographer’s sister? At least, that’s what Viktor had thought he said; Chris was speaking the pair’s usual hybrid of rapid-fire French slang and slightly more intelligible but equally fast-paced English.

Even without the language difficulties, it was a rather confusing story, and Viktor was having trouble paying attention as the minutes ticked away. Still, he dutifully filled the gaps in Chris’s diatribe with the appropriate sympathetic tongue clicks and indignant huffs.

After a particularly long lull in the conversation, Chris gave an irritated groan.

_“Vitya? Are you still listening? Vitya?”_

It took Viktor a few seconds to register that his conversation partner was saying his name. “Hmmm?” he hummed finally.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, accompanied by the sound of the home button on Chris’s phone clicking. This was followed by a few words mumbled in German, and then, _“When was the last time you took your meds?”_

“Meds?” Viktor echoed. Then he remembered. The bottle on his desk. “Oh, I’m supposed to be taking those, aren’t I? Guess I just forgot?”

“Putain de merde! _I swear it’s like you_ want _to suffer. Have you been having trouble sleeping again too? When was the last time you took them? Did you refill the prescription last month like you were supposed to? Does Yuuri know you’ve been skipping them?”_

“Too many questions,” Viktor whined. He shielded his head as though Chris was about to start hitting him with a pillow, only to belatedly remember that Chris wasn’t there. “I mean, Yuuri doesn’t exactly know I was ever supposed to be taking anything…”

Chris let out a colorful string of curses, in Italian this time. Viktor could pick up on a few, mostly those directed at Viktor himself. The switch to English was abrupt, and it was clear from Chris’s tone that he was trying very hard to remain calm—and mostly failing. _“And why the fu—I mean, why didn’t you trust him with this information?”_

  
“It’s not about _trust_ , exactly—” Viktor tried, only to be cut off by a frustrated sigh from the other end of the line. He tried again, “It’s just…I mean I can’t…I just…It’s not about trust.” He could feel himself growing irritated for some reason, the words he was searching for buzzing tauntingly out of reach.

 _“Then what’s it about?”_ came the clipped, impatient response.

Viktor rubbed his temples where he could feel a headache coming on. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t fucking know! Are you happy?” he snapped, feeling tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

He regretted the words the instant the were out of his mouth. It’d been a very, very long time since Viktor had yelled at Chris, and he’d never yelled at Chris for something so stupid.

“Shit! I’m sorry, Chris. I know you’re only trying to help.” Viktor just barely refrained from calling him something affectionate, knowing it’d only cheapen the apology in Chris’s eyes.

Chris sighed a long, heavy sigh, and Viktor could hear him shifting on his bed. _“You always do this,_ mon vilain,” he said, voice frustrated, and then continued, his tone softening. _“You don’t need to fight alone anymore. Just let him in, and you’ll be surprised how safe it’ll be. He really—”_ He cut himself off abruptly, yawning.

Viktor frowned, making a quick calculation in his head. “It’s half-five in Zürich right now, isn’t it? Don’t you have morning practice soon?”

 _“Skipping it,_ mon chéri,” Chris replied with a chuckle. _“It’d be a bit difficult to skate here at the airport hotel, after all.”_

“Airport? Where are you going?” Viktor demanded, his mind instantly and jarringly defogged and full of images of seeing his best friend again.

 _“I’m not exactly sure yet. Maybe America. I know it’s off-season, and Josef is going to be pissed, but I just…I need a change of scenery.”_ The smile in his voice had faded, making Chris sound much more tired and much less confident than he had moments ago, and suddenly Viktor felt very sorry for him.

Before he could even think about what he was saying, Viktor burst out, “Chris! Come to Hasetsu for the summer!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for bearing with this angst train. Don't worry, Viktor and Yuuri will not be fighting for long, because we've got actual plot to get to, and it's not my intention to keep that going. Our boys are in a loving relationship built on mutual respect yo. (They just need to learn how to communicate better and trust each other)
> 
> Also, just as a heads up, this fic will get dirtier (after all, Chris Giacometti is involved), but I’m not sure yet how dirty, since I haven’t written Those Scenes yet.
> 
> Next chapter should be out in approximately 11 days, meaning August 18th, at around 8pm EST. Feel free to come talk to me on my tumblr, marshmallowdramatic or leave a comment. Please let me know what you think so far!


End file.
